I pulled my brush from my bag and ran it through my damp blonde locks, cringing as it tugged through the tangled curls that had taken over my head. After a futile moment of trying to make it look more dignified and less like a refuge for wayward birds, I gave up and threw it in a clip, which at least made it so that I no longer looked like the Bride of Frankenstein from those cheesy black-and-white movies. I added a layer of my favorite lipstick and finally felt halfway normal.
"You got this," I said, pivoting around and striding out of the bathroom. I ignored the eruption of laughter from the two giggling girls who were entering as I was leaving. Obviously, I would be their comedic relief for the day.
I straightened up, finding the backbone that had liquefied and all but disappeared the moment the plane's wheels had touched down on the wet tarmac that morning. "Screw him. He doesn't own the city. I have every right to be here," I told myself as I headed for the long bank of elevators to the right of the bathrooms. A small crowd of people hurried onto one of the elevators as the doors slid open. I declined to join the overflowing box, waiting instead for the next elevator that would be less crowded. Being closed in with a group of strangers wouldn't cut it for me. I couldn't stand being in confined spaces anyway, but elevators and I had a hate/hate kind of relationship. I hated them, and if the seventh grade hand crushing incident was any indication, they hated me too.
"No problem. The doors will open and you will step inside. Nice and easy," I whispered to myself. I knew it would require all my will and strength to remain sane on the elevator as it carried me up fifty-two floors to Rob's office. As is always the case with my luck, he couldn't have been on the first five or so floors, making the stairs a viable option. N-o-o-o-o-o, it had to be practically up in the clouds.
The ding signifying the arrival of the next car prompted me out of my inner whine-fest. I took a deep breath as if I were about to jump into water before cautiously stepping aboard the elevator. I exhaled a sigh of relief as the doors slowly closed and I found myself alone for the impending ride up. This was a good thing in case my hyperventilating-I-wish-I-sucked-my-thumb-or-at-least-had-a-stiff-drink elevator behavior decided to surface.
My relief was short-lived when a hand reached between the closing doors, causing them to reopen.
"You know, sticking your hand in like that can result in serious injury." Personal experience had me pointing that out before the words locked in my throat.
All the air escaped from my lungs and I wheezed out a startled swear word as the elevator doors slid closed, trapping me inside with him. I would have gladly shared the ride with a couple of brain-starved zombies instead of him.
Our eyes locked as all the animosity and hatred from two years ago radiated off him in waves.
"Justin," I squeaked out in a voice that was totally not my own.
"Selfish bitch," he greeted me with venom dripping from each word as he punched the button for the fifty-second floor with the side of his fist.
I cringed as the elevator walls began to close in on me. I knew he hated me. He had all but shouted it in my face the very last time we'd been in the same vicinity. His eyes and words had cut me like razorblades. Every syllable had traveled across the quad until all the students who had been lounging around had turned to stare at us with morbid fascination.
Justin was the love of my life.
Chapter Two
October 2010
I met Justin on a drizzly October day during my sophomore year at UW. I disliked him on sight. He was covered in equal amounts of tattoos and girls who giggled at every word that dripped from his lush lips. Everything about him screamed bad boy, from his ripped jeans and pierced eyebrow to his painted on white t-shirt. This combined with him smoking a cigarette pretty much sealed the deal for me. I'd lost my grandma to lung cancer a year ago. Ironically, she'd never smoked a day in her life, but my grandpa had smoked like a chimney before he passed away when I was five. Turns out all that crap they say about secondhand smoke isn't some mystical fairytale. That shit really does kill.
I ignored Justin and his admirers as I ordered a strawberry Danish and a coffee before setting myself up at a table under a large umbrella. I had a paper due the next day in my Teaching in Diverse Populations class. Usually, I preferred the café here to the library because it was closer to the dorms. Besides, my dorm room that morning had proved to be more of a distraction than an actual study haven. My roommate, Melissa, was a total sweetheart, but her constant interruptions made getting anything written nearly impossible. She was buzzing about some big Halloween party at Alpha Delta Phi the following week, and freaking out about what kind of costume she should wear as she frantically searched the Web for something original that would catch the eye of some guy. I told her to go as a Victoria's Secret Angel and she'd be all set. "You know, sexy panties and bra—add in a pair of wings and you'll have all the attention you want."
"I don't want to attract that kind of attention," she wailed, glaring at me.
"Hey, you said you wanted to snag a hunk. Your words, not mine," I pointed out dryly as I closed my MacBook. I lifted my backpack from the floor and stowed away my laptop and books.
"What about this one?" she asked, whipping her computer around to reveal a person covered in purple balloons.
"You want to go as an atom?" I asked, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
"They're grapes, not an atom, smart ass."
"So wear the bra and panties underneath and then you can pop the balloons at an opportune time."
"Shut it," she snorted, throwing a pillow at me. "Wait, where are you going?" she asked as I headed for the door.
"Look, I love you despite the fact that you're a total spaz, but seriously, you make studying damn near impossible," I answered, throwing her a kiss.
"Do you want me to order you purple balloons?" I heard her call through the door as I headed down the hall.
I shook my head. She was a mess, but surprisingly, we'd really hit it off after a few initial speed bumps last year. I wasn't used to being around someone quite as vibrant and enthusiastic about everything as Melissa. Every emotion she was feeling was always on display for the world to see, like she was throwing up the Bat Signal or something. Everything was a big deal whether it was good or bad. I was the polar opposite, not wanting the whole world to know every little detail about me. On our first night as roommates, I'd watched her with morbid fascination as she had buzzed around our room chattering nonstop about the great year we were going to have, and how we would be the best of friends. After hours of endless chatter, she had finally fallen asleep in the middle of regaling me with stories of all the parties and hot guys we would be exposed to now that we were in college. While she snored loudly in the bed next to mine, I vowed that first thing in the morning, I would do everything in my power to switch roommates, but by the time the next morning had dawned bright and early, she didn't seem nearly as bad. Of course, that was probably because she woke me with a steaming cup of coffee from the small kiosk near our dorm. Anyone that recognized the importance of a morning hit of caffeine couldn't be all that bad. I won't lie though; during the next few weeks I did question the sanity of that decision. Now, a year later, I was glad I didn't follow through with my initial plan. Sure, there were still times she wore on me, but she was pretty terrific all the other times. Even if she did act like a hyped-up RedBull junkie most of the time.
Leaving Melissa to her costume dilemma wasn't that much of a hardship. Despite the dreary day, I enjoyed sitting by myself at one of the cafés just off campus. I was supposed to be doing my schoolwork, but people watching kept distracting me while I sipped my coffee and nibbled on a sinfully good Danish that practically melted in my mouth.
I was halfway through my second cup of coffee and finally working on my paper when the annoying squeals from a nearby table broke my concentration.
"What about this one?" a girl asked in one of those fake baby-talk kinds of voices that got on my nerves. I could practicall
y hear her eyelashes batting.
"Well, sweetheart, I designed that one when I was seventeen. The other half is here," a masculine voice drawled behind me.
"Oh my god. On your thigh? I want to see," another voice squealed so loud that I'm sure dogs halfway across the state were sent into a barking frenzy.
"I'm not that easy, babe," the same masculine voice chuckled as he answered. "What are you willing to trade?"
"Oh brother," I said louder than I intended. The sudden silence behind me clued me in that my comment had been heard. Now was one of those times I wished my best friend Tressa was here. She hated when girls made an ass of themselves by fawning over some guy. Better her making the loudmouth comment than me.
"You mean, like, I'll show you mine, if you show me yours?" the same piercing voice asked after a few awkward moments had passed.
I waited to hear what his response would be, completely annoyed with myself for paying attention to their conversation. I fought the urge to turn and look at Mr. Sure of Himself to see what had the two girls so entranced.
"You have no interest in seeing my art?" he asked into my ear, making me jump.
I silently berated myself for jumping. "Excuse me?" I asked, taking in his rugged appearance. He had nice eyes, I'd give him that, but the typical bad boy getup made any interest I may have had go down several notches. It seemed like he was trying too hard to portray his image. Even the drenched white t-shirt that showed his six-pack abs and a well-defined chest covered in tattoos was a complete turnoff. I wondered what he would have done had it not been raining. Suddenly, I found myself laughing at a mental picture of him using a garden hose to soak himself down.
"What's so funny?" he asked, seeing that I was trying not to laugh. Without waiting for my answer, he pulled out an empty chair. The heavy metal squawked loudly across the concrete as he scooted himself toward the table.
"Why don't you sit down," I said sarcastically. "And get rid of the cigarette," I added, not caring that I didn't even know him.
His lips quirked at my testy tone before looking down at the cigarette. I expected him to scoff at my demand or even ignore it, but he surprised me by using the sole of his shoe to put it out. He earned a few more brownie points by placing the butt in his pocket versus throwing it on the ground.
"Won't your 'girlfriends' wither away into a pile of simpering drama now that you've left them?" I asked, casting a look over my shoulder where the two blonde bombshells were staring daggers into my back.
"Nah, they're cool," he said, flashing them a smile, which must have been laced with some kind of potion considering the way they both smiled back at him with such adoration. I was disgusted. He was nothing but a flirt who treated women with little respect.
"I think I'm going to hurl," I commented, making him turn his attention back to me.
He laughed. "You're hardcore. So, I'm getting the sense you don't like me. Is it because I interrupted your studying, or have we maybe hooked up before? Because I definitely think I would have remembered that."
"Please, I shudder at the thought. Does that crap actually work?" I sniped. The fact that he was callous enough to find nothing wrong with flirting with me while he was on some weird ménage-a-trois date was irritating as hell.
My comment only spurred more laughter from him. "I think you just broke my heart," he said, clutching his chest.
"I'm sure your playboy bunnies will be more than willing to repair it."
"How about you make it up to me by going out with me?"
This time it was my turn to laugh. "Um, no thank you."
"Why not?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
"Because, I don't like you," I answered, stating the obvious.
"How do you know? You don't even know me."
"Maybe not directly, but I know your type."
"My type?" he asked, ignoring the calls he was getting from the girls at the other table.
"Okay, let's forget for a moment how you're over here flirting with me while your fan club over there is cooling their heels waiting for you. I'm a little puzzled what they see in you, but the fact that they're dumb enough to actually share you makes me believe you must be an out-of-work musician or something like that. Guitar player, right?"
He threw his head back, laughing loudly at my analysis. "Wrong on both. I couldn't play an instrument to save my life. Not to mention, I'm pretty much tone-deaf. As for your first assumption, neither of them is my girlfriend. I met them at a party last night and agreed to meet up for coffee today. But enough about them. I'm curious to know why you came up with these assumptions?" he asked, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest while he casually crossed his ankles.
"Hmm, could it be the Barbie twins you're stringing along? You may not think you're dating them, but they sure think something is going on," I said, deliberately cutting my eyes in their direction. "Or, it could be all the ink. Is it a fetish, or are you just blatantly seeking attention? Your whole persona screams 'misunderstood tortured soul.' I'm guessing your parents ignored you and this is a vain attempt to get their attention," I added with complete disinterest. A hint of what almost looked like disappointment flashed in his eyes, but was gone in a second, convincing me I was imagining things.
"Are you one of those fortune tellers?" he drawled. "Hey, what number am I thinking of? Kidding. What about you? Gotta be a psych major, right?" he asked, raising his pierced eyebrow, which I failed miserably at ignoring.
"Education," I answered, holding up my Teaching in Diverse Populations book.
"And you moonlight as some kind of psycho-analyzer? Watching and judging everyone?" he asked.
I bristled at his description. I wasn't some busybody who clucked her tongue judgmentally anytime someone did something I disagreed with. That was my mom's thing. Not mine. Okay, so I liked to watch people, but that was different. It's not like I ever said anything negative, at least out loud. God, was he right? Did occasionally thinking snarky thoughts while nosing into people's business make me no different than my mom? It had to be different. Besides, who didn't do that? Was there a sane person who could actually walk through Walmart without judging someone? I pondered these questions as Mr. Wet T-shirt continued to eye me.
"I'm just observant," I finally answered lamely. "So, if you're not some misunderstood musician, what are you?"
"Like, what species? Well, when I was younger I pretty much assumed I was a monkey, but as I got a little older I was convinced either my parents were from another planet or I was. Recently, it's come to my attention that I might also be part ass," he answered cheekily.
"Funny," I answered, sitting back in my chair.
"I'll have to tell you what I am the next time I see you," he answered, standing up as his blonde companions called his name again in unison. "By the way, I'm Justin," he said, holding out his hand.
I held up my own hand, reluctantly. "It's been interesting."
"What, you're not even going to give me your name?"
"It's not like we'll be seeing each other again," I answered, knowing I sounded like a total bitch. I didn't see any point in encouraging something that was never going to happen.
"You never know. Maybe next time."
"That all depends on how many girls are in your entourage. If there is a next time, which I highly doubt," I pointed out, tugging at my hand that was still clasped in his.
"Well, until then," he said, giving my hand one last squeeze before releasing it. He strolled away from the table, not bothering to look back.
I could hear Barbie One and Two pouting about his absence as they headed in the opposite direction from where I was sitting. I didn't turn around, even though, for some insane reason I wanted to. I knew I'd never see him again, and most likely he'd forget about me before he even got to the next block. I may have come off as a total hag, but it was smart to not give in to the charms of some playboy. No matter how handsome he was. Yep, I definitely dodged a bullet.
About Author Ti
ffany
USA Today Bestselling author Tiffany King is a lifelong reading fanatic who is now living her dream as a writer, weaving Young Adult and New Adult romance tales for others to enjoy. She has a loving husband and two wonderful kids. (Five, if you count her three spoiled cats). Her addictions include: Her iphone and ipad, chocolate, Diet Coke, chocolate, Harry Potter, chocolate, zombies and her favorite TV shows. Want to know what they are? Just ask.
Web-authortiffanyjking.blogspot.com
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A Woodfalls Girls Novel
USA Today Bestseller, available now as an ebook. Paperback available October 2014 from the Berkley Publishing Group. Published by the Penguin Group (USA) Inc.